


Look Your Last

by michaelandthegodsquad



Series: From This World-Wearied Flesh [2]
Category: Borderlands, Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Caretaker Rhys, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Eye Trauma, Fluff, M/M, Sick Jack, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 18:26:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4273449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michaelandthegodsquad/pseuds/michaelandthegodsquad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Headache?”</p><p>“Massive.” A beat. “Pounding.” Jack stops there, and Rhys knows it’s bad when Jack doesn’t even to attempt to make any jokes about pounding. It’s going to be a quiet night, then.</p><p>OR</p><p>In which Jack's old injuries still cause him pain, and Rhys does everything he can to soothe those old aches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look Your Last

**Author's Note:**

> This all stemmed from my need to see Jack take off his mask in front of Rhys. The result is 2000+ words of self-indulgent domestic fluff. SO DOMESTIC.
> 
> Apologies for any mistakes, as I couldn't find a beta within the fandom. This is my first Borderlands/TFTBL fic as well, so I also apologize if either of them seem out of character. I would like to improve in the future, so any constructive criticism is more than welcome. 
> 
> Special thanks to Carolina for keeping me company while I wrote this, and to Alyse for putting up with multiple massive texts from me pondering Jack's eye.
> 
>  **Warning** for mild descriptions of eye trauma and facial scars.

The house is pitch black inside when Rhys pushes the front door open, still grinning softly to himself as he steps inside and drops his keys into the bowl on the table by the door. The few drinks he’d had with Vaughn and Yvette still left him with a warm buzz under his skin, lucid enough to drive home but still feeling the pleasant thrumming in his fingers and toes. He kicks off his shoes and hangs up his vest and bag before making his way into the dark hall.

It’s not uncommon for the house to be empty when Rhys gets home; Jack often works late, especially when he knows Rhys is going out. Rhys pads into the kitchen in the dark, flicking on the light above the stove and turning on the kettle. As the water begins to boil, he takes out a teabag and looks for his favorite mug, frowning when he can’t find it in its usual spot. Must have left it in the living room. He leaves the kitchen and crosses the hall into the living room, standing in the doorway while his hand gropes the wall for the light switch.

“Don’t,” a gruff voice says in the dark, and Rhys frowns.

“Jack?” It was so dark and quiet in the house, he hadn’t even realized Jack was home. “You alright?”

“Just fine, cupcake. Do me a favor and leave the light off, will ya?” Rhys nods to himself, stepping carefully and quietly into the dark living room to retrieve his mug. He stops when his shin bumps against the coffee table, then carefully runs his hands over the table’s surface until his metal finger clinks against the ceramic.

Gripping the mug in his flesh hand, he chances a glance over at Jack. In the light from the hallway he can vaguely see the way Jack is sprawled out on the couch with one arm resting on his face, his jacket and vest draped over the back of the couch. Rhys knows that look.

“Headache?”

“Massive.” A beat. “Pounding.” Jack stops there, and Rhys knows it’s bad when Jack doesn’t even to attempt to make any jokes about pounding. It’s going to be a quiet night, then.

That’s not a bad thing, necessarily, Rhys thinks as he walks back to the kitchen with his mug and pours hot water over the teabag. It’s just...unusual. It feels strange, not having Jack’s booming voice filling every corner of the house.

Rhys sips his tea while he opens the fridge, finding little else but leftover pizza and popping a slice into the microwave. He quickly hits the stop button just before it beeps obnoxiously to let him know it’s done, then balances the plate and his mug in one hand before heading back into the living room.

“Gonna turn on the lamp,” he warns quietly, not really waiting for a response from Jack before he flicks on the lamp that casts the softest possible light on the room, just enough for Rhys to see. Still in his socks, he walks over to the back of the couch and looks down at Jack, who is now shielding his eyes with both arms. “I’ve got pizza.”

Jack’s gruff “humph” is the only response he gets.

“If you sit on the floor I can give you a massage while you eat.”

Jack adjusts his arms so only his green eye is covered, looking up at Rhys with his blue eye and a sly grin. “That come with a happy ending, princess?”

Rhys rolls his eyes and moves around to the front of the couch, standing and waiting while Jack slides off the couch and repositions himself on the floor, knees pulled up to his chest, still doing all he can to keep his green eye covered. When he’s situated, Rhys hands him the plate and sets his tea down on the coffee table, sitting on the couch and positioning his legs on either side of Jack’s shoulders.

While Jack eats, Rhys rolls up his sleeves and gets to work, circling his thumbs along the nape of Jack’s neck and working outwards to his shoulders. Jack moans quietly in appreciation, of the pizza or Rhys’s handiwork, he’s not sure. Not that it really matters. Rhys makes sure to be particularly gentle with his metal hand, working out a knot between Jack’s shoulders while Jack bows his head and sighs.

“You’re even more tense than usual,” Rhys says conversationally, inviting Jack to talk about what’s got him so worked up without directly asking.

“Just the usual bandit scum, kiddo. Nothing you need to worry your pretty little head about.” Rhys huffs at that but doesn’t answer with snark the way he normally would, instead working his fingers up Jack’s neck and onto his scalp, running them through his hair and onto his forehead. He works two fingers of each hand in circles on Jack’s forehead, massaging to the edges of the mask, making his way down to his temples and rubbing slow circles there, frowning when his fingers continually bump into the mask and Jack’s hand covering his green eye. There’s only so much he can do with the mask still on.

Rhys returns his hands to Jack’s shoulders. “I’m gonna go run a bath,” he says, scooting backwards on the couch and swinging his long leg over so he can stand. He grabs his tea and flicks the lamp back off before he leaves, rounding the corner and entering the bathroom.

While the tub fills, Rhys drinks his tea, now lukewarm, and searches under the sink for candles. He lights a few and places them around the bathroom, just enough to see without having to turn on the harsh fluorescent light.

He turns off all the lights on his way back to the living room to retrieve Jack, who is still on the floor in front of the couch, his head leaning back against the cushions.

“Hey,” Rhys says, kicking Jack’s feet. “C’mon. Bath time.” Jack groans in complaint but stands anyway, taking Rhys’s flesh hand and allowing himself to be pulled through the dark into the bathroom, left hand still covering his green eye.

Upon seeing the candles giving the bathroom a soft glow, he shoots Rhys a mischievous grin. “If I didn’t know any better, Rhysie, I’d say you were trying to butter me up.” He waggles his eyebrows and Rhys chuckles as he begins to unbutton Jack’s shirt.

“Jack, if you were any more buttered you’d be a croissant.” Jack starts to laugh at that, the deep, full-bodied laugh that Rhys loves so much, but groans midway and presses a hand at the pressure in his head. Rhys frowns and proceeds to quietly strip Jack of his clothes, dragging his unbuttoned shirt down off his shoulders and pulling his battered yellow Hyperion shirt over his head. When he kneels to unbuckle his belt, Jack thrusts his hips forward, brushing his clothed dick against Rhys’s cheek with a chuckle. Rhys looks up at him coyly, then, saying, “Later,” before pulling Jack’s pants and socks off.

Jack hisses at the heat of the water as he steps into the tub but sinks into it as though melting. He “accidentally” splashes water on Rhys, feigning innocence and saying, “Oops. Guess you’ll have to change, pumpkin.” Rhys only rolls his eyes and undresses down to his underwear, kneeling by the tub and lathering up a washcloth for Jack.

After washing Jack’s body and hair, Rhys sets the washcloth down on the edge of the tub and slowly reaches for the mask. His fingers brush the hinges on the clasps and Jack’s hands suddenly rip out of the water, gripping Rhys’s wrists and immobilizing them, his expression suddenly cold and dark.

“Jack,” Rhys says simply, waiting patiently for him to relax. “C’mon. Let me do this for you.” There’s a pause in which Rhys still worries that Jack won’t let him, but he finally relents, releasing Rhys’s wrists with a scowl and crossing his arms over his bare chest.

Rhys nods. “Thank you.” He reaches again for the clasps on the mask, the hinges on the top two squeaking slightly as he opens them. The larger clasp on his chin echoes the sound, and Rhys gently curls his fingers around the edges of the mask and lifts it off Jack’s face.

There’s a barely-there sound of air rushing as the mask unsticks from Jack’s skin. Rhys carefully sets the mask down on the counter, reminding himself to clean it later. Jack's skin is clammy around the pockmarked scars littering his face, smelling slightly of accumulated sweat. Rhys runs his flesh fingers along the blue scar running up either side of Jack’s face; there is no sweat there, no hair and, from what Jack has told him, little to no feeling. It feels dried at the edges, the skin flaking slightly. Rhys picks up the cloth and washes his face, gently running the cloth along the scars and curves before turning his attention to Jack’s left eye, still tightly shut.

“Can you open your eye for me, handsome?” Rhys asks, setting the cloth down again. Jack frowns at the nickname and hesitates but complies, cringing as he lifts his lid. It’s too dark for Rhys to get a good look at it. “I’m gonna need to look at it with a light, okay? This is probably gonna hurt.” Jack stills but nods minutely, and Rhys holds out one metal finger, a small flashlight shining from the end, and aims it at Jack’s eye. Jack hisses and shifts uncomfortably.

“I know, I’m sorry. Just a few seconds,” Rhys says softly, getting closer and examining Jack’s eye. The normally all-white sclera is a deep, angry red, swollen and irritated, and when Rhys shines a light on it, tears quickly form at the corner and spill out. He can vaguely see where the swollen eyeball presses against the socket. Rhys shuts off the light and Jack sighs, relieved.

“No wonder you have a headache. Your uveitis is acting up,” Rhys says matter-of-factly, picking up the cloth again to wipe away the stray tear. “Have you been using your drops every day?” Before Jack can even begin to respond, Rhys says, “Actually, don’t answer that.” He stands, stepping over to the medicine cabinet and rifling through the various products before settling on a small white bottle with a pink top, also grabbing a tube of moisturizer before kneeling by the tub again.

“Tilt your head back,” he says, already laying a hand on Jack’s forehead to steady him and unscrewing the pink cap. Squeezing the bottle, he quickly deposits two drops into Jack’s formerly green eye and places the bottle back on the counter. “You’re gonna need a refill by the end of the week,” Rhys says, uncapping the moisturizer and applying it along the blue scar. Jack blinks a few times but otherwise doesn’t say much, the quiet still unfamiliar on Rhys’s ears. Rhys leans forward and presses a kiss to Jack’s lips, his _real_ ones, scarred and chapped though they are.

When he finally gets Jack out of the tub, Rhys grabs a towel and gently runs it along his damp skin, silently taking note of the way Jack resolutely avoids looking at the mirror. Rhys sighs to himself, hanging up the towel and grabbing another dry washcloth. He runs it under hot water before taking Jack’s hand and leading him next door to their bedroom.

After Jack lies down, Rhys presses the warm washcloth to his left eye. Jack cringes but relaxes into the heat, sinking further into the bed. As Rhys gets up to leave, Jack grabs his hand.

“I’m just gonna go blow out the candles,” Rhys says, and Jack nods before letting him go.

“Hey Rhysie,” Jack says as Rhys is on his way out. Rhys pauses. “Uh. Thanks. For, y’know. Everything.” Rhys nods and smiles softly to himself as he heads back to the bathroom.

He flicks on the fluorescent light, its quiet buzzing filling the room. Rhys blows out all the candles before turning his attention to Jack’s mask. Picking it up gently, he runs it under warm water, wipes it down with a cloth, and oils the hinges, taking it with him as he shuts off the light and rejoins Jack in their bedroom.

Jack is already asleep, snoring somewhat loudly. Rhys smiles to himself and sets Jack’s mask down on the nightstand before crawling into bed beside his partner. Without waking up, Jack reaches for him in the dark, and Rhys reaches right back before joining him in sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> (If anyone cares, [this](http://www.eplans.com/house-plans/epl/hwepl72530.html?from=search) is the house I was using as a reference.)
> 
> Thanks for reading! Once again, any and all con crit is welcome.
> 
> Come find me on [Tumblr](http://michaelandthegodsquad.tumblr.com/)


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